


Red Dead Rebellion

by finefeatheredfriend



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur doesn't die, F/M, Reader is Arthur Morgan, Set in the future, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 09:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22967512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finefeatheredfriend/pseuds/finefeatheredfriend
Summary: Arthur thought he had died up on that mountain, but when he wakes up in 2732 at the New Austin Center for Temporal Anthropological Research, he wishes he had. Can he find his way back home to his family? Will he find out what happened to John and the rest of the gang?Only time will tell.(Reader is Arthur Morgan)
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. 2732 and the Light-Made Woman

There was a slow, steady _beep, beep, beep_ that was incessant in your ears and the distant sound of voices that seemed filtered through a tin can. You couldn't open your eyes, you were too weak, but you were certain that you had died, and you were even more certain you were in hell. Things smelled...clean. Too clean, as though all the nature had been taken out of it, all the goodness. You felt yourself groan lowly and you tried to clear your head, tried to remember.

John. He'd gotten away. You'd done it.

Dutch, leaving you at the last. Your words falling on deaf ears as you struggled to draw in your final breath. The sunrise, all brilliant oranges and pinks, and then a sudden deafening noise that sounded like suction. Voices, sounds of concern. A sharp prick at the crook of your arm. You remembered being poked, prodded. Then cold, terrifying _void_ cold that made you certain you were dead. But there was still that incessant beeping and you felt something in your nose blowing cold air into your nostrils.

Finally able to blink your eyes open, you were greeted by bright white everywhere. Bright white walls, bright white sheets. Looking around you, the world seemed unreal. You stared down at your arm where a tube was stuck into it, some sort of fluid dripping from a clear balloon that hung from a silver stand. There was tubing stuck in your nostrils and you tried pulling it out with a weak hand, but it was to no avail. You couldn't move enough to escape whatever this was.

"What the hell?" you rasped out. "What in the hell is this?" You looked down at your chest and sucked in a breath, realizing you were basically naked. There were warm blankets of an odd texture covering you from the waist down, but above that only a thin cotton robe covered you. You discovered, flushing, that you weren't wearing underwear or clothing of any kind on your unmentionables or elsewhere, only some scratchy socks that were making your feet sweat. Your chest hair poked out from the low collar of the robe and you noted that patches of it had been shaved and had some sort of gadgets stuck to the bare skin, attached to wires as though you were rigged to blow. Your heart began to dance a staccato in your chest and the beeping increased its speed to match.

"Hello, Mr. Morgan," came a calm voice and you turned your head, mustering all your strength to do so, mildly terrified at your situation.

"Mary?" you asked hopefully before you saw the woman who had spoken, though you knew that was a damn fool thing to assume.

"No, not Mary, I'm sorry, Mr. Morgan. I'm Dr. Felicia Vogel. Can I get you anything?" You blinked, staring at her for a moment, taking in her kind face. Her hair was a creamy brown, her skin a bland tone, but her clothing was what you noticed. A plain turquoise shirt that...Lord have mercy...showed a lot of skin and all of her curves, and she was wearing dark pants that clung to her thighs boldly. You swallowed stickily, unsure what to think about how she was dressed. Over her shirt was a white coat, a doctor's coat, as she had said. That couldn't be right. A woman doctor? And dressed like that? Well, you thought of Sadie, stranger things had happened. You hoped she was alright. You hoped she'd find peace. You weren't sure you had. Moving your head wearily from side to side, searching the room now more thoroughly, you felt a hundred questions floating through your mind.

"Wh-where am I?" you finally settled on, your voice scratchy and hoarse.

"New Austin Center for Temporal Anthropological Research. Things will all be clear soon, Mr. Morgan. For right now, get some rest," she insisted, picking up that odd tube attached to your arm, checking something and then adjusting something else on that weird fluid-filled balloon hanging from the equally weird metal stand. Your world suddenly went warm and hazy, the edges of your vision pressing in. You struggled, taking a rasping breath, but it was to no avail. You descended into nothingness and were no more.

\------

Your eyes blinked open and you swallowed, your throat clicking and your lungs rasping as they had for months, but you realized it was easier to draw breath. Part of being dead, you supposed. You were still in that bright whiteness, still on this odd cot made of strange, hard material that had no give and no grain. It was nothing like wood or metal. The best you could guess was some sort of fancy resin.

"Good, you're awake. How are you feeling?" There came all those questions again, and you forced out an astonished chuckle.

"Confused," you answered.

"Understandable. Mr. Morgan...Arthur, may I call you Arthur?"

"I reckon so," you answered dryly.

"Arthur, things are going to be confusing for a while. It may be hard for you to understand, but the important thing for you to know is that you're safe now, and you'll be getting better. The Cornwall Foundation has personally seen to it that you'll have a job herding cattle in Montana once our study is complete."

"Cornwall?!" you snapped, and it took all the energy from you, making you cough suddenly, but this time the rattling cough worked something satisfying loose and again it was easier to breathe. You felt a wad of mucus in your mouth and Dr. Vogel offered you a kidney-shaped bowl. You spat into it, wondering why anyone would shape a spittoon like that. "What the hell has Cornwall got to do with any of this...madness?" you snarled, terrified suddenly. What was this place? Where were you? Why weren't you dead? Were you dead? And why was everything so goddamn clean?

Your breath came in gasps and you felt lightheaded, fear overwhelming you, panic coursing through your veins, a cold venom that sank into your gut and took all the heart out of you.

"What is this? Where is John? Where is Dutch? Where am I?"

"Arthur, Arthur, please calm down. You're experiencing a panic attack, and in your condition, it is very dangerous. Take a deep breath for me, please. Arthur..." Dr. Vogel took one of your hands. You tried to tug it away, feeling your vision go hazy, but she held resolutely on, meeting your eyes. "Arthur. Everything will be okay. I know you don't have any reason to, but you can trust me. Your well-being is my one and only concern. Now, I'm going to give you a mild sedative. It won't make you sleep, but it will help you calm down. Is that alright?"

You gave a quick, desperate nod, knowing your eyes must have been bulging from your head in terror. Feeling your heart thunder away in your chest, you made yourself take a deep breath, surprised that you could at all. Dr. Vogel again adjusted something on all that tubing you were attached to, and you felt a sudden irresistible calm settle over you.

"I'm going to show you something. You may find it alarming at first, but I assure you it is as harmless as a book." You thought of those damn philosophy books Dutch had been so obsessed with.

"Meanin' no offense, ma'am, but books can be plenty dangerous." She chuckled.

"No doubt, but I assure you that what you are about to see is for presenting information only. It's not magic, it's science. From what I hear, you're a fan of science."

"Well, I ain't got nothin' against it, at any rate," you admitted.

"Alright. Try to stay calm." She pulled a small object from her pocket and set it on the table beside your bed, touching it until it made a clicking sound. Light emitted from it, and the next thing you know, a tiny woman made all of light was hovering above it, smiling genteelly.

"What in the holy hell?" you muttered, eyes going wide again.

"Welcome to the future. We're so glad you could join us. We here at the New Austin Center for Temporal Anthropological Research, commonly referred to as 'Nectar' are pleased to meet you. We have brought you here to learn from you. Your experiences, your knowledge. We want to know the real you. We want to know our past so that we can improve our future. Whatever year you have come from, we hope you know that during your stay, we will do all we can to keep you happy and healthy. Advancements in medicine and research means that you no longer have to worry about disease. We are passionate about our care of individuals, and want to make sure you are your best self. You are our grandfathers, our grandmothers, our history, and we here at Nectar thank you for your time. So that we can better understand one another, I am here to give you a brief explanation. The year is 2732. The time is currently 12:38 pm. If you wish, I can answer any questions relevant to your stay. I can also provide you with information regarding the fates of your loved ones, should you be concerned for them during your stay. Please ask a question aloud to begin. I am fluent in over 300 languages should you prefer to speak in a language other than English."

Amid the storm of emotions that were rushing through you, you realized that something was keeping you from panicking. The sedative, you concluded. You also realized that you believed what that gadget had just said, and you, oddly, weren't afraid of the tiny little light-made woman who was willing to answer questions and could speak more languages than you thought existed. Just because you did believe it, just because that drug had torn down your defenses and forced you to calm didn't mean you _wanted_ to believe any of this, though.

"2732," you murmured, swallowing. "No" you insisted. "This ain't real. Ain't none of this real."

"It _is_ real, Arthur. We recovered you from Ambarino in 1899 and brought you to now, 2732. You were nearly dead when we found you. We were almost too late." You laid there blankly for a moment before looking up at her. You wanted to kill her, you realized with a flair of that old familiar anger that made you do terrible things. You wanted to rip these tubes out, you wanted to throw that weird balloon across the room and shoot a hole in that goddamn light-up box that seemed to be the source of the beeping. You wanted to find your clothes and find John and Sadie and Charles. You wanted your six-gun on your hip and your rifle across your back. You wanted your horse, and your tent and your satchel.

You wanted a goddamn cigarette.

"Why didn't you just let me die?" you asked miserably, angry, confused, frightened and just dog-tired.

The little light-made woman began to answer you from where she hovered above the gadget on the bedside table.

"We chose you for our research because the 1923 novel _Red Dead Rebellion_ was based on your life. A predecessor to the equally popular _Red Dead Redemption,_ it became popular with readers everywhere when it was re-released for its 500 year anniversary in 2423. We believe your experiences could provide unique insight into the development and -" Dr. Vogel cut the tiny woman off by pressing something on the gadget. She met your eyes with a face full of sympathy and kindness, putting a hand gently on your shoulder, a familiar motion that made you uncomfortable, but you wanted her answer to your question, so you didn't shrug her touch away.

"Because I think you have a story to tell, Arthur. And I'd like to hear it."


	2. Wondering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's worries continue as he tries to find out what happened to John

Locked, impenetrable doors were the only reason you didn't manage to leave the stark white hospital room you were being kept in. You wanted to go, wanted to try to escape back to something familiar, but there was nothing familiar. After nearly two weeks, Dr. Vogel finally allowed you to walk down the hallway, your face crimson red since your bare ass was exposed by the thin robe, and you traversed the slick-tiled hall, holding onto the silver stand. It had wheels and rolled along with you, that odd balloon still dripping God-only-knew-what into your arm. Your sock-covered feet padded on the cool floor and you wished you had your boots. They were comfortable. Familiar. You just wanted something that looked like home. Heart thumping, you realized that a door had opened in the hallway, and for the first time since you had arrived here, you saw a window. Ignoring the protest of the person exiting the room, you shoved your way in, desperate to see outside. Your forehead thudded against the remarkably clear glass and shock poured through you.

Metallic machines zoomed over a distant road, some of which left the ground, balanced on tall pillars that allowed them to curve and arch over yet other roadways. Monstrous towers rose in all directions, and you couldn't seen an expanse of grass or dirt anywhere. Everything was gray or white or black. It felt like a punch to the belly, this alien landscape that was nothing like home, that was nothing like the New Austin you had visited years before, hell, literally centuries before now. You turned away from the window with an expression of abject horror, your breath coming fast again and you saw Dr. Vogel standing there mildly.

"We don't usually let our subjects see the outside world so soon after coming here. I know it must be a shock."

"It's...it's somethin'," you muttered, unsure how to feel, thinking you were about to go apoplectic from the horror that still flooded you. "Ain't there no more grass? Or horses? Or trees?" you asked, feeling sick.

"There are. This is a research city, so there's not much in the way of trees or grass left here, but there's plenty elsewhere now, and we have purification towers to do the work of the plants within the city itself. Our country...our world has been through a lot, Arthur. We had to recover after some particularly bad climate crises. It's part of why we're doing this research. We hope to perhaps prevent the crises, or at least prevent another one in future. We are looking for turning points in history. You can help us."

"I can't help nobody," you insist. "I wanna go home. I wanna go back to my own goddamn time, and I wanna see my family, my friends."

"Why don't we start with lying back down, huh?" she asked you gently. "I'll have a nurse bring you some food. What would you like?" she asked you as she guided you back toward your room.

"Fried catfish?" you asked hopefully. She nodded.

"I can arrange that. In the meantime, I'd like you to keep telling PARMA about your life, Arthur, anything you can remember."

"The little light-woman -"

"PARMA," Dr. Vogel insisted. You shot her a look.

"The little gal from the gadget, she won't answer most of my questions. I want to know what happened to John, and Dutch and Abigail."

"All in good time, Arthur. We don't want to taint your account."

"'Taint my account,' Jesus Christ. I want to know what happened to my family, or I ain't talkin'." You stared at one another for a long moment and finally Dr. Vogel said,

"We'll discuss this later, Arthur. Your food will be along shortly."

\----------

The catfish was surprisingly good, but even its dull familiarity didn't make you feel better. You scratched your chin, startling a bit when a nurse stepped in.

"The doctor says you're doing much better. I'm here to remove the IV - the tube in your arm."

"A'right," you agreed, offering your arm freely. The nurse took it and pulled the tubing and the attached needle out after clicking something that dangled beneath the odd balloon. Instantly you felt warmer than you had in days, the cold rush of room temperature fluid no longer a bothersome discomfort. The nurse touched your arm with some other gadget, which emitted light and to your astonishment, the small hole left by the needle stitched itself shut almost instantly. "Christ alive," you murmured.

"Anything else I can get you, Mr. Morgan?" the nurse asked, another friendly face you had seen the last few days, though you hadn't asked her name.

"Reckon I could use a wash," you admitted, feeling vaguely sticky.

"Alright, the shower is right through that door."

"The what now?" you asked, frowning.

"Er, oh. Right. Here, let me help you." The nurse tugged you up out of your bed and helped you to the room. You realized it was the same room with the loud chamber pot that somehow immediately disposed of waste. "This handle is for hot, this one is for cold," she explained, demonstrating. "Need anything else?"

"A bit more in the way of clothing wouldn't hurt none," you commented dryly, feeling that her arm had slid beneath the thin cotton robe and was in direct contact with your ribs. Her fingers were cool and dry and her gaze meeting yours was confident. She was pretty, you assessed, but not too pretty. She wasn't one of those women like Molly who might be tempted to lord their beauty over other women.

"I'm afraid it'll have to be the gown just for now, Mr. Morgan. I'll bring you a warm towel, though."

"A'right," you agreed, feeling her hand linger on your back for just a moment. "Forgive my manners, ma'am," you said, tipping an invisible hat. "I never had the pleasure of learnin' your name. You have me at a disadvantage," you pointed out, no longer knowing if that was rude in this day and age.

"Sorry about that," she said immediately, thrusting out a hand. Well, that was still the norm, at least, you thought with relief, taking her hand with your own big paw. "My name's Julie. Julie Gaskill." Your heart flew to your throat. Relation to Mary Beth? But no, couldn't possibly be, especially with that being a maiden name, plus all the centuries... But you did wonder, and you took a small comfort in the familiarity of the name.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Gaskill," you said, meaning it.

"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Morgan. I've read a lot about you. I'm a big fan." You raised a brow.

"Where'd you read about me? What do you know about me? What about John?" you asked her urgently, desperate to know. There was a loud tone that made you startle and Julie's face went stark white.

"I'm, sorry, I'm not supposed to talk about the books. You'll probably be told about it later. It was nice to meet you, Arthur, er, Mr. Morgan. If you need anything else, just press the button." She indicated it and was gone in an instant.

Frustrated, you flung the robe away from your body, allowing it to crumple in a corner of the room. There was a tall mirror available, again, remarkably clear, the best glazier work you'd ever seen. You touched it and were surprised when lighted words appeared upon it.

"87 degrees," it read, "cloudy. You'll need an umbrella," the words declared. "Local smog levels: medium. Advise wearing a face mask if traveling in downtown."

"Jesus," you muttered again, constantly bombarded with newness that made you deeply uncomfortable. You stared at your figure in the mirror, surprised at how thin you had become, though you supposed you shouldn't be. It was called "consumption," after all. You didn't think you were ever particularly attractive, but now, with your sallow cheeks and thin, pale lips, you felt truly monstrous. You ran a hand over the stubbly, uneven beard you had grown and hummed with displeasure. Your belly was thin and your legs were wobbly and pale. "Ugly bastard," you declared with a sigh.

Stepping into the shower, you adjusted the water, jumping when a stream of water spurted from a faucet above your head on the wall. Once you grew used to the idea, however, it was lovely. You stood beneath the steady flow of water, letting it drip down your frame, wiggling your toes in the soap suds that were rinsed from you as you scrubbed yourself. The water flowed through your hair and you scrubbed at it with your fingers, wondering which one of the soaps you should use. They were offered, labeled and sticking from taps out of the shower wall, but you'd only ever bothered with a bar of soap in your time. "Shampoo" one was labeled, and you recalled from somewhere in the depths of your memory that something with a name like that had been for hair in a fancy hotel in Saint Denis. Experimenting, you dropped some into your hand and worked it through your hair, sighing with relief as you felt it rinse grease and sweat away with some of your troubles.

Feeling deeply wasteful, you finally convinced yourself to turn the water off and stepped out, using the towel that had been deposited at some point while you were standing beneath the stream of relaxing water with your eyes closed in bliss. You wondered if that pretty nurse would talk to you again. You wondered if she'd answer your questions. Seems like you spent all your time here lately doing that: wondering.

There was no robe on the floor, you noticed, but there was some clothing. A blue plaid shirt, made of a soft, cottony sort of material, though it didn't seem to breathe as well as cotton. You read the small tag at the collar. Something called "renewed polyester byproduct." Shrugging, you tugged the shirt on, relieved to have more of yourself covered. The jeans provided were soft and looked comfortable, but the underwear...

"Oh Lord..." You picked them up skeptically. They reminded you of plain women's bloomers, but there was a slit at the front where one could, you supposed, stick one's prick to take a piss. You pulled them up your legs, readjusting what needed readjustment and shrugged. Not too bad. Quite comfortable, actually. You pulled the jeans on too, and the boots that were provided, though they were stiff and needed to be broken in. "Thank the Lord for small comforts," you muttered, recognizing your hat before you jammed it on your head, though you were irritated to find that it smelled of some kind of astringent soap. You opened the bathroom door and stepped into your room, surprised to be greeted by a roomful of people, two of which had weapons on their hips.

"Mr. Morgan. It's time to go."


	3. I'm sorry, that information is unavailable

"What's all the hubbub about, fellas?" you asked, eyes darting to each of the people in your room, your fingers twitching at your hip, longing for a pistol that wasn't there.

Your mind was racing. The hat. Your hat. How the hell did they get your hat? You hadn't died with it. You'd given it to John. What the hell had happened to John?

"Come along, Arthur. You don't need to be in the hospital anymore. We're transferring you to living quarters," Dr. Vogel told you, her voice even. You swallowed. None of this seemed right. It hadn't from the beginning, but now, with your hat sitting oddly heavy on your head, you were certain it wasn't. You reached up to remove your hat from your head and saw one of the armed guards twitch. Were they...afraid of you?

Taking the familiar felted leather in your hands, you fiddled with the band.

"How the hell'd y'all get this hat?" you demanded, keeping your eyes resolutely on its brim, on the unmistakable scuffs, and the fully recognizable damage from where you'd nearly taken a bullet to the brain when you were twenty-three. Dr. Vogel inhaled a sharp breath. Had they only now realized their error?

"It's a replica," she lied. Your eyes darted up and met hers ferociously.

"There's only a few things I hate," you said in a low tone. "Bad beer. Gators. Folk who beat their horses. And liars. You're lyin' to me. Now, there's a coupla possibilities here. Either you lied just now because you're hidin' somethin' important, or you're lyin' because you're hidin' somethin' you know will make me not want to work with you. And there's a third option and it," you said, taking a slow step forward, chin jutting up aggressively, eyes widening with fury, "it is that if your pretty little mouth is movin', then you're lyin'. I kin tell you with certainty which one my money's on." You didn't give her a chance to ask which and instead made your way all the way up to her, your hat still in your hands. "All three. This hat? I gave this hat to John when I knew I was goin' to die. This hat weren't nowhere near where you folk found me. So I wanna know. Where the hell did you get this?" you demanded, jutting the hat upwards. "Get your goddamn hands off me," you snarled when one of the gathered folk touched your arm.

"Settle down, Mr. Morgan," one said.

"I'll settle you right the hell down you touch me again, boah," you snapped, but then one of the armed guards stepped forward, pulling something, not the stark black gun, from his belt. You snatched the gun when he got close and punched his arm back hard, lifting the muzzle and pulling the trigger. Nothing happened.

"Guns only fire for their owner, Mr. Morgan. It's a new world you're in. I suggest you accept it and do your job."

"And I suggest," you forced out through clenched teeth, "that you kiss the most lily white portion of my ass, _Doctor."_ You tried the trigger again, but again nothing happened, so you adjusted your grip to the muzzle and were about to swing the gun to pistol whip the guard you had taken it from. He was still holding that thing from his belt, some sort of rod, but you weren't concerned. You'd rather fight to the death than deal with any more of this bullshit. In hindsight, you really should have been more worried about what that rod was capable of.

He touched you with the rod, just touched, not struck, and you went out like a light, your muscles clenching in agony a second before you lost consciousness.

\-----------

When you awoke, you were in a new room, and this one was more familiar, but still felt alien. The walls appeared to be the inside of a small cabin, and the bed was softer than the hospital bed. The blankets felt like real cotton, but their weave was too fine to be handcrafted. They could mimic, but they could not perfectly recreate. You picked up your hat where it was slung on the bedpost, bringing it to your face, staring inside of it. You pulled away the lining with care, inspecting it closely. It was very clean and still had the soap smell, but it was certainly your hat. As you tugged the lining, you found what you had been expecting - a few small hairs from your head, soft pieces that tended to accumulate in a hat worn for so long. But there was one, just one, that wasn't yours. It was longer, darker and more coarse. You plucked it from the sticky inside of the lining tenderly.

John's.

The gadget from your first days in the hospital was on the nearby chest of drawers. You picked it up and touched it.

"What happened to John Marston, born 'round July 1873?" The tiny light-made woman jumped to life, smiling blandly.

"I'm sorry, that information is unavailable."

"What happened to Abigail Roberts? ...I...I dunno when she was born, but she was with me. John was her beau."

"I'm sorry, that information is unavailable."

"What happened to Hosea Matthews born -" She cut you off.

"Hosea Matthews died from his injuries due to a gunshot wound. He was shot by one of the Pinkerton detectives during a failed robbery attempt. He -"

"That's enough," you cut her off, feeling sick. So it wasn't that she couldn't identify who you were talking about. You had tried asking in every way you could think of, and every time the same response. "What happened to John?" you whispered, surprised to hear your voice breaking.

"I'm sorry, that information is unavailable. You appear to be emotionally distressed. I recommend drinking a glass of water and perhaps taking a short nap. Food will be delivered for you shortly. Is there anything else I can assist you with?"

"What happened to John Marston? Please," you begged.

"I'm sorry, that information is unavailable. Would you like a cigarette, or a glass of whiskey? We can accommodate any of your needs should you find yourself craving something from your own time period."

"I want my family back," you muttered, "I want to go home. Will they let me go home, after all of whatever this is?"

"I'm sorry, that information is unavailable." Your stomach dropped. You tried a new tack.

"What happened to the Pinkerton Detective Agency?"

"The Pinkerton Detective Agency, founded in 1850, was purchased fifty years ago by Delta Seven Security and Analysis Systems. They still provide private law enforcement, intelligence services and investigation, as well as security and crisis management. Their current stock price is..." She rambled on and on, but you were no longer listening. So the Pinkertons were still around, even after all this time. What an awful world you hadn't managed to die in yet, you thought, slicking a hand back through your hair.

"What happened to Charles Smith?" you whispered.

"I'm sorry that information -" You threw the gadget violently across the room, giving a loud scream into your hands before you forced yourself to lie back on the bed. Enough was enough. You had to find a way out of this, and back to your own time. You didn't know what the hell they were up to here, but it couldn't be anything good.

There was a knock at the door and it opened without you answering. It was the nurse, Miss Gaskill.

"Hello, Arthur. I brought you some food." You met her eye and then looked away, not in the mood for conversation. She sat the tray down. You glanced at it. Lamb's fry with peas, mashed potatoes and mushrooms. A large slice of cherry cobbler. A cold beer, specifically a dark stout. Your eyebrow raised at that. Your favorite meal. You'd never told anyone that. It was always your special treat to yourself after a successful robbery, but you always ate it alone. "Brought you something special," she murmured.

"I see that," you answered.

"Not yet you don't." She lifted the tray very slightly, just high enough you could see a folded paper beneath it. "Try not to lose it," she said. "It's very important to me."

You waited until she was out of the room and the door was firmly closed before you reached for the paper. It was paper from your journal. It was in your handwriting. It was a letter. A letter to Miss Julie Gaskill, dated April 17, 1903.

"What the hell...?"

**Author's Note:**

> \-------------------------------------------  
> Please let me know what you think in the comments! 
> 
> This idea popped in my head suddenly today and I decided to run with it. Not sure how many chapters it will be, but I'd like to keep it brief. I know the concept is kind of Assassin's Creed or Westworld-esque (I never claimed to be creative), but I figured it would be a fun way to write a fic about what-ifs for Arthur. Plus I've been dying to write an Arthur!Reader for a while.


End file.
